


But the story is this

by wearethewitches



Series: I am weak, my love and I am wanting [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Family Fluff, Geraskier Week, M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23085010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Oh, how Geralt adores Jaskier.or - a family gathers in a cottage by the sea.~(geraskier week, day six: found family)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: I am weak, my love and I am wanting [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632970
Comments: 12
Kudos: 298





	But the story is this

The cottage is heaving.

In the background, Geralt can still smell the sea-salt air and hear the whistling wind as it races past the cliff below, but present, front and centre, is a party.

Yen and Tissaia are curled up beautifully on the chaise, Yennefer’s dress showing off half her legs; it says something about Tissaia that she can look, every so often and only smile at the wanton invitation. Cirilla, oblivious to the sexual tension in a way only a child can be, is across the room rolling a pie crust under Vesemir’s strict instruction, flour dusting her cheek and hair – Vesemir himself looks more a baker than a Witcher, though his sword is still within arm’s reach.

And Jaskier…

Oh, how Geralt adores Jaskier.

He’s telling a story to Eskel and Lambert, an embarrassing one for Geralt, by the sounds of it – his hands flung through the air at every interval. He embellishes like the Master of Entertainment that he is and it surprises Geralt, genuinely, deep down, that his Witcher brothers are so enthralled by his lover.

Although, considering how fascinated they are by Geralt’s simple life here by the coast, maybe he shouldn’t be. Jaskier, of course, is a big part of why he’s here.

Struggling for something to do – not knowing whether to bug Ciri and Vesemir, to join Jaskier’s storytelling or interrupt Yennefer’s silent seduction of her wife – Geralt’s eyes eventually fall on an item of value. It is an old item, well-mended and patched, painted beautifully and strung with the finest of strings: Jaskier’s lute.

Geralt’s fingers itch.

He doubts he can remember how to play. It’s been so long – except Geralt’s pitch is perfect and Jaskier has been with him for forty years. He’s picked up enough music theory to last him the rest of his very long life. It’s _playing_ an instrument he fears. The moment he picks it up, they’re bound to stare at him…right?

 _But they’re busy,_ he thinks, palms sweating. _No-one’s looking._ And making a split-second decision, Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s lute, settling it across his lap, curled inwards so as to not let them notice. For a moment, he waits for an outcry, but the sounds don’t abate. Ciri is still trying to convince Vesemir to let her fix the shape of her dough; Jaskier still answers Eskel’s questions on how they found out the identity of the cursed princess; Yennefer and Tissaia don’t so much as glance his way. Belatedly, Geralt wonders if they’re having a conversation of the minds, then looks to Jaskier’s lute in his grasp.

He hesitantly strums a note, fixing his fingering when it comes out wrong. In an instant, his focus is solely on the neck of the instrument, clumsily working his way through a soft tune taught to him by a whore, who was just as, if not more, enthusiastic than Jaskier about sharing music. Geralt remembers her name was Ivette.

Quicker than he would have thought, the movements come back to him and he’s trying to play Jaskier’s _Her Sweet Kiss_ and only half getting it when someone finally gasps.

As expected: Jaskier is the one staring in awe.

Geralt’s fingers stumble and in fear, he stops playing, eyes locked with his grey-haired lover’s. Jaskier is speechless, eyes so wide and blue, like the sea outside their home, his stunned awe turning Geralt’s cheeks pink.

“What? I’m not ignorant in all musical endeavours!”

“I- I never thought you were,” Jaskier says, voice breathy. He abruptly gets out of his chair, joining Geralt at the table. He bounces, gesturing silently. He is mute.

Vesemir rumbles, “Play us a tune, Geralt. Do you still sing?”

“No.” Geralt says shortly, before relenting to say, “I can play little. Not much.”

Vesemir gestures around. “We are family. We don’t give a shit, so long as you’re willing and able.”

“I care,” Lambert interrupts, looking to Geralt. “If you’re shit at playing, don’t play.”

“Fuck off,” snorts Geralt, before he returns to playing. He tries not to feel self-conscious, but when he starts playing the tune he knows again, Cirilla starts singing along in a wonky soprano, getting all the words, if not the notes. Then Tissaia joins in and Yennefer startles, exclaiming a short _‘You sing?’_ before Jaskier reaches up and up, into the rafters for his old lute.

Geralt keeps playing, over and over. His fingers stumble more and more, until Jaskier starts to play along, having tuned his spare in seconds and begun to pluck a melody for his strums.

The cottage fills with music – Eskel pounding his feet along to the beat, Vesemir humming a low harmony – and it feels special, even with Cirilla’s awful voice and Yennefer’s continual muttering to Tissaia about _never telling anyone you could sing._

Eventually, Geralt stops playing and the songs move on – Jaskier playing their own little crowd on his old, creaking lute. Geralt watches the man he loves, feeling at peace with himself.

His family are here.

And Jaskier is at the centre of them all.


End file.
